Echoes

What quiet whispering is this, what private ache, what hollow pain, which tells me to write, to read? To look again for the poignant sorrows, the eloquent hysteria captured without hope, recorded with only the faintest traces of truth and an unsteady faith in the power of words?

I can no longer write because I no longer read. I no longer read because I question the value of thoughts and words, words, words